Prologue

Fire snaked into his lungs. Suffocating. Debilitating. He couldn’t breathe, his body immobile. He clawed at the air, at the coarse rope binding his feet, at everything his hands could reach. Why were his hands free?

Is this how someone feels when they burn?

Helios promised him there would be consequences. It had only been one more fire, one more kill. He had craved it more than he feared Helios’s warning.

One more mistake.

Smoke curled upward from the flames, dancing up the walls in a seductive swirl of lights and sound. The crackling of gunshots echoed somewhere beyond the steel door.

No chance of escape.

He didn’t deserve to die this way. His scream lodged deep in his lungs, so deep it burned his insides. A round of hacking coughs escaped his scorched lips. He desperately wanted water or a beer. Yes, when he got out of this... if he made it... he’d down a whole six-pack of Bud Light and thank whatever powers that be for his salvation.

I’ll be good. If you let me live, God, I’ll be good forever.

Did he hear his name coming back to him from the darkness beyond the flames? Yes, but from where, exactly?

Damian.

It’s only in my head. No. No, no, no!

He heard shouts, or was fear mocking him? He yanked at the ropes around his ankles and tore away flesh covered in his own blood. Why couldn’t he move?

The door pounded. No, someone pounded on the door. The blaze caressed the floor around him, moving closer with a lover’s passion, inch by inch. He heard the loud crash this time and was certain someone stood on the other side of the door. A gust of air whooshed into the room, and the fire found new life. It tormented him, licked his skin. A scream escaped, louder now because of the burn. Two muscular bodies in masks lifted him away from the center of the inferno. His eyes remained open, even as the sensation of floating carried him away from the chamber. He’d promised to be good and he would be. No man or woman or creature walking the earth could claim to be so good as he from this moment on and into forever.

Darkness consumed his whispered thanks while a cacophony of sirens trumpeted his fall into oblivion.

***

Excerpt from When the Wicked Fall by Blaire Morgan. Copyright 2026 by Blaire Morgan. Reproduced with permission from Blaire Morgan. All rights reserved.

A World of Two

I picture my mother lying on her hospital bed, the same one she has occupied for the last twelve days. The space is in shadow, the only light coming from the hallway. The room smells empty. No flowers or scented candles—she wouldn’t have wanted those. The sound of retreating footfalls in the corridor or a muffled voice from another part of the hospital occasionally interrupts the silence. Her breathing is shallow, until the moment it stops altogether. It happens so quietly, no one notices at first.

When my mother died in Concord, I was an ocean away, in a Paris hotel. Another day had already started. That remove feels familiar—geography and time following an established pattern.

In the morning’s early hours, I lay next to my husband, Tom, on a king-sized bed in a room of marble-inlaid tables and still-life paintings in gilded frames, the walls covered in red-and-gold-striped paper. I heard only the sounds of the night, a faint breeze moving through the magnolia trees in the courtyard and an occasional car gliding along the boulevard. While Tom slept, I lay awake, thinking about my mother. I had started to understand that we wouldn’t make it back in time. My mother would either be dead or so unresponsive that there could be no last words between us.

Tom read my brother Billy’s email while I was taking a shower. I knew from the way he walked into the bathroom, but he still had to say the words: “Your mother is dead.” Years from now, I thought, I will be able to replay this moment in my mind. He stood there, naked, looking both vulnerable and strong, his hand on the shower wall ready to reach for me.

My brothers and sister wanted to touch our mother after she died because she had not welcomed that while living. She would allow a hug or a kiss in greeting or farewell but shrugged you off if you lingered in the embrace.

Henry would have stroked her sparse hair, cut short after she could no longer shape it into a twist. He might have teased her about finally being able to touch her hair, something she loathed. Lydia might have rubbed her feet, those odd feet, with such high arches her toes curled to reach the ground. Her feet shaped by childhood polio and old age, missing the little toe on one foot, removed because of frostbite suffered during the Second World War. She could never find comfortable shoes, so she wore Birkenstock sandals year-round, donning socks with them in winter.

Billy would have rested his hand on her shoulder, let his fingers travel the length of her arm. He might have held her hand, bent at strange angles by arthritis and with the bones loose under the skin. Had I been there, I would also have been drawn to her hands, so small that they reminded me of a child’s. She kept her nails short and immaculate, a habit she’d adopted in medical school, and one I try to emulate. I might have traced the line of her aquiline nose and the contour of her jaw, fondled her cheek and pressed my fingers to her high cheekbones, a sign of her Slavic heritage, she once told me.

Her sandals and the pair of socks she last wore with them are mine now, safeguarded in a box in the back of my closet. Those Birkenstocks, the insoles shaped over time by the pressure of her feet, her navy-blue socks. I wanted the last of her clothing, something that had touched her. I run my hands over the smooth cork, hold the socks to my cheek, the much-washed cotton soft. I thought the socks might retain the cool, dry scent of her.

Our plane to Massachusetts departed in the afternoon, so Tom and I filled the morning with small errands—the purchase of a journal of good paper with a red ribbon to mark my place—and one last view of Notre-Dame. Each gesture, every step I made, accompanied by a voice in my head repeating, Your mother is dead.

The air smelled of diesel fuel and wet earth. My left arm entwined with Tom’s right, I rested my hand on his steady forearm, eavesdropped on the conversations around me, catching only phrases. I thought how these strangers knew nothing of my grief and I nothing of theirs. A rare winter’s morning, fresh with rain-washed skies, and sunlight bathing the bone-colored stone of centuries-old buildings. I noticed the quality of the light, its unusual clarity. Tom and I had introduced my mother to Paris on a trip years before. She will never see it again, I thought, trying to absorb its beauty on her behalf.

***

Excerpt from THE HISTORY WE CARRY by Margaret Whitford. Copyright 2026 by Margaret Whitford. Reproduced with permission from Margaret Whitford. All rights reserved.

ONE

The air above the blacktop rippled as Sheriff Elizabeth “Bet” Rivers drove west. The tiny town of Collier struggled under a heatwave that had swept through Washington State and turned the last week of June unexpectedly brutal. The sun, barely over the tops of the mountains surrounding the community, already beat down hard. By midday, it would be merciless on the traveling Carnival Roma where they’d set up on the hardpacked dirt at the far end of the valley.

Bet parked the SUV in the makeshift visitor lot and eyed the temporary fencing around the fairgrounds. It didn’t encircle the entire footprint, tempting reckless souls to take a shot at getting in through the back for free.

She sauntered up to the empty ticket booth where Robert Collier Junior stood with an unreadable expression on his face. He cocked an eyebrow. “Mornin’, Sheriff.” His voice was warm and low, teasing her with his formality.

Pretending deference, she tipped the brown campaign hat that covered her auburn curls. “Mr. Collier.”

At thirty-seven, Rob had more than a few care lines etched into his tanned face, and the dark, neatly trimmed beard had begun to show hints of gray. He held out his arm. “Shall we?”

“We shall.” Bet wrapped her fingers around the crook of his elbow, enjoying the tingle that always arrived when she touched him. They had stopped and restarted seeing each other so many times since they’d met last September that her head spun, but the physical attraction was always there—at least for her. Rob played his feelings close to the vest. Recently, there had been phone calls and texts that he ignored in her presence, or left the room to answer, giving Bet the impression she wasn’t the only woman in his life. She worried that they had missed their chance at something wonderful and would fall into the awkward role of “friends.”

It surprised her how much that hurt.

Following Rob through the turnstile, she kept her fingers tucked against his arm. “I feel special getting in before opening day.”

“It’s my role as the person renting the land to do a walkthrough, and as the head of local law enforcement, you should confirm that everything meets your approval.”

“And as a bonus, you get to show off your newfound status as feudal lord of the manor.” She meant it as a joke about his recently expanded fortune but caught Rob’s grimace from the

corner of her eye. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s OK.” He stopped and pulled her around to face him. “It’s not your fault that I’m uncomfortable owning an entire town.”

Not to mention international corporations and properties across the US. His sudden riches had regularly taken him away from their remote high elevation valley, interrupting their progress as a couple and turning him into someone else. Toe-to-toe, she got a better look at the dark circles under his eyes. There was a toll to all the travel his new position forced on him. Rob had left the Collier family responsibilities behind years before to pursue a career with the FBI, but his

father’s death had sucked him back in. As the sole heir, he felt obligated to the people his father’s businesses employed and responsible to various organizations.

He tugged her closer, and she closed her eyes, the heat of his body seeping through their clothing in direct competition with the weather. Standing together, the world felt right, even with a heat dome hovering over their heads.

All too soon, Rob stepped back with a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I wanted to join the circus once.” The brim of his hat cast a shadow across his face and for the briefest of moments, he looked like a stranger.

Bet wasn’t sure if he was joking. “Because you wanted to run away?”

“Because I wanted to be Buffalo Bill.”

“And star in a Wild West show.” Bet could picture him on his big Morgan horse, shooting targets at a full gallop.

“Something like that.” The two continued their walk, and with no one around to see them, Bet kept her grip on his elbow, touching the soft blue denim of his shirt. It made them feel like a real couple. She’d never wanted that until now, when it wasn’t clear if they would ever be committed.

The midway split the meadow in half. Food stalls filled one side while games of skill and chance filled the other, with rides scattered in between. The big blue and white striped tent at the far end promised trick horses and acrobats, shimmering in the heat like a mirage. Carnival Roma combined the food, rides, and fun of a carnival with the live performances of a circus, guaranteeing tourist dollars for her often-overlooked town and spectacle under the big top.

As they made their way along the empty “street,” Bet imagined Rob in a fringed coat, performing with the big horse he’d brought with him to Collier almost a year ago. “You still got to carry a gun to work for the FBI. That’s almost like Buffalo Bill.”

“Does that make you Annie Oakley?”

They reached the first of the games—multi-colored balloons to pop with darts, metal targets to hit with little peashooters, heavy white milk cans stacked into pyramids waiting to be knocked into the dirt by an oversized softball. Memories of the past filled her, the view of those games from a child’s eye level. Her father always waving off trying his hand at hitting the targets. A crack shot, he didn’t believe guns should be used as toys.

The stalls were unattended, but a tall, gangly man stood not far away watching them—his blue polo shirt had GUS stitched in gold letters on the left side and a patch with the carnival’s logo on the right.

Rob gestured toward the shooting gallery like a game show host pointing out the grand prize. “Care to prove your gunslinger skills, Sheriff?”

“Only if Gus’ll let us use the dart game.” Bet didn’t hold the same belief as her father, toy guns didn’t bother her, but she refused to fail at hitting the targets with the carnival rifles because the sights were bad.

Gus started his singsong patter as he climbed over the knee wall in front of the games. “Hit a balloon and win a prize.”

Hefting a dart, Bet readied her shot. The pink balloon popped as the point found its target, but before they could finish the high five she aimed Rob’s way, a sharp crack rebounded down the valley. “That was—”

She caught Rob’s startled expression, and they finished with eyes locked together, “—a gunshot.”

Bet’s hand went instinctively for the gun in her holster. But before she drew, she reached down to her backup weapon and held the Smith & Wesson Shield Plus out to him. Planning a fun morning off, his weapons were all back home in his gun safe. Rob gave her a nod, the micro-compact looking tiny but lethal in his hand. They started toward the far end of the carnival grounds, their steps in sync.

Carnival workers streamed toward them, away from the blast at the north end of the midway. With the carnival opening in two days, performers and other staff had likely been at their various tasks and rehearsals. Now they formed a mob, racing toward the entrance, their voices loud and frightened.

Bet grabbed the arm of a young woman running by, wearing a glittery costume. Her silver tights and gold leotard were draped in spangled scarves and netting, which sparkled in the bright sunlight. “What did you see?” Bet asked her.

“Nothing.” Her wild eyes focused and she took in Bet’s sheriff uniform. “I was inside the big top when I heard the gunshot. It sounded close, like it came from out back where the trucks are parked.”

Bet let the woman go and she slipped into the crowd as Bet picked up speed in the other direction. She caught up to Rob, who had paused a short distance away. “Could have come from behind the tent,” she said.

His expression was grim, his body taut as they jogged toward the far end of the midway. “At least there haven’t been any more shots,” he said.

If this had been a spree, the report wouldn’t have stopped at one. But Bet wasn’t taking any chances. Kane Stand, her sole full-time deputy, answered his cell on the first ring.

“We may have an active shooter at the carnival,” Bet said before he could get a word out. “Call Clayton and get him back here now.” She hoped her part-time deputy was still in the area, his night shift had only recently ended.

Kane’s calm voice came through. “Will do. He just left, so he hasn’t gotten far.” Kane grounded her as she fought to steady her breathing. “Do we need Addy?” he asked.

Addy Jamisen was an EMT who owned the only ambulance to serve the rural valley.

“Yes, please. Call her too. But wait with her and Clayton at the front entrance while Rob and I determine if someone has been injured or there’s still a threat.”

“OK, but if I hear gunshots, I’m coming to back you up.” Kane’s voice said not to argue with him doing his job. “Keep me posted on your location.”

“We’re heading past the southeast corner of the tent to get behind it. I’ll be in touch.”

She made eye contact with Rob, and they moved faster in tandem again, weapons drawn.

The tent blocked their view of all the travel trailers for the crew and performers parked behind it, along with transport vehicles for rides and booths and animals. As they came around the side of the tent, the forest of vehicles and trailers threw angular shadows onto the ground. Danger could hide in the fractured light.

Fifty feet away, a man lay face down in the dirt near the back of the tent—as if the gunman had already hit the bull’s-eye, only to slip away in the crowd.

***

Excerpt from KILL TO KEEP by Elena Taylor. Copyright 2026 by Elena Taylor. Reproduced with permission from Elena Taylor. All rights reserved.

Seth

Wednesday. Late afternoon.

Sitting on the rooftop of Wallace Investigations in the shade of a canopy, Seth reflected on his afternoon. He’d seen everything the South Bend PD had on the Jameson case. It was both what he expected and disappointing. But, he realized, if there had been the proverbial smoking gun, he wouldn’t be here now.

Or maybe that voicemail to Butch was the smoking gun. Without it, Declan Jameson’s death would have been ruled accidental, and life would have moved on.

While Stanton had welcomed him on the team, Seth had to run his own investigation, separate and unofficial. Top of Seth’s list were Jameson’s children, Danielle and Sean. If he were lucky, Jameson talked to one of them about what he thought stunk.

He dialed the number for Danielle in the police report. After five rings, it rolled to voicemail. Not a surprise. In the day and age of spam calls, he was one of the many who only answered numbers he knew. Well, his phone knew. Seth long ago stopped knowing phone numbers beyond his and the one that rang in the house where his father still lived.

He left a message for Mrs. Tolbert and then dialed the woman who had reported Jameson missing.

She picked up on the second ring. “Hello?” The female voice was soft, almost melodic.

“Mrs. O’Connell? My name is Seth Rizk. I am conducting a secondary investigation into Declan Jameson’s death. How are you today, ma’am?” He asked the question to give the woman time to digest the mouthful he’d just given her.

“I’m fine, thank you for asking.”

“I would like to meet with you to talk about Captain Jameson.”

“Who is it?” a nosy voice asked grumpily in the background.

“My nephew,” Mrs. O’Connell said away from the phone, then came back to the speaker. “I would love if you visited. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you.”

“Ma’am? Did you hear what I said?”

“Of course. Tomorrow afternoon? That would be fine. You’re welcome to join us for lunch, if you don’t mind eating with a crowd of sophisticated, older ladies.”

“I would love to join you for lunch. I’ll be there at noon, Mrs. O’Connell. Or should I call you Aunt Morrighan?”

“Yes, that would be best,” she said. “Oh, it’s been such a long time since I’ve had someone to, er, talk to. You know, family. Do you have any news?”

“About Captain Jameson’s death? More questions than answers, but there are a few things I can share.”

She laughed, the sound forced and brittle. “Oh, that brother of yours. He always was a troublemaker.”

No, Jakob was the good brother. Not that she knew.

“I really can’t wait to hear what kind of trouble you’ve been making,” she said, her voice cracking.

Seth heard the real stress behind the faked banter. “I can come now. I’m in the city and can be there in twenty minutes.”

“No, no. Things are the same around here. It will be nice to have a break in routine …”

“Seth, Aunt Morrighan. I’ll see you at noon. You have my number—don’t be shy about using it.”

“Wonderful, see you tomorrow, Seth.” She ended the call.

“Color me intrigued,” Seth said to the pigeon walking around the roof. “The woman was intimidated by someone. Maybe the same someone who shot Jameson up with heart meds. This ought to be an interesting visit. Hold that thought,” he said as his screen showed the daughter’s name. “Seth Rizk.”

“Hello, this is Danielle Tolbert. I’m returning your call?” The question held more than a little distress.

“Thank you for calling, Mrs. Tolbert. My condolences on your loss. I met your father a long time ago. I’m one of the many who respected him.”

Not Jakob. Whatever his problem was.

“Thank you.” Her voice broke.

“I want to speak with both you and your brother, tomorrow if possible.”

She sniffled. “Why do you want to talk to Sean? He lives in Nashville, Tennessee and just came back home when Dad went missing. He doesn’t know anything.”

“With investigations, you just never know when the smallest, off-hand comment holds the key to the entire puzzle. I know this is hard.”

“Why isn’t the South Bend PD handling my father’s case? He worked for them for more than thirty years. He trusted them and wouldn’t like it if they were pushed aside.” Even in her grief, Danielle wasn’t rolling over for him.

“No one has pushed anyone aside. I spent the morning with Detective Stanton. If you prefer, I can see if he’s available to join us.”

A pregnant pause followed.

“No. It’s all right.” She didn’t sound as if it was. “As long as he knows you’re meeting with us, it’s okay. Sean is staying with us. Could you come by the house in the morning? Maybe nine thirty?” When Seth agreed, she ended the call with little courtesy or fanfare.

Seth sat with his elbows on his knees. He would have his hands full tomorrow. He would have to be strategic interviewing the grieving family. In his experience, the doors of cooperation could slam shut quickly. For an instant, he contemplated tagging Stanton. She obviously trusted him. But Seth wanted to get his own impressions. Stanton would be his backup plan, in case he did end up shut out.

The trip to Seven Families, to see Morrighan O’Connell, had to be solo. Walking in with a known cop could shut mouths he needed open.

Briefing the detective after would be good enough for now.

“Well,” he said to the pigeon, “since I’m not going anywhere soon …” He opened the cooler, pulled out a Bud, and leaned back in his chair.

***

Excerpt from Guilty by Association by TG Wolff. Copyright 2026 by TG Wolff. Reproduced with permission from Tule Publishing. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

Although it was a few days before Christmas, it felt like spring. By ten a.m., the temperature had already climbed into the fifties, and people were shedding their coats, carrying them folded over their arms or tied around their waists. The grounds of my aunt’s pet hotel, Wiggle Butt Manor, were buzzing as locals and vacationers flooded the property for the grand opening of Orca Cove’s one and only agility course.

Noah, my buff-colored Cocker Spaniel—and a very good boy—stuck close to my side as I navigated the crowd. We’d arrived the night before following a four-day drive across the country from my hometown in New Jersey, arriving at the Pacific Northwest island town my aunt Jo-Jo called home.

Ten-hour days behind the wheel of the moving van I’d rented were exhausting, and my body was stiff from sitting for so long. But we made it. I was about to dive into my new life headfirst. I was now a permanent resident of Orca Cove.

People I recognized from my recent stay on the island greeted me warmly as I passed booths in various stages of readiness for the day. I found Aunt Jo-Jo walking around the property with a cane in one hand and a clipboard tucked under her other arm. A leash encircled her wrist as she tried to subdue Maya, who I wouldn’t exactly call a good girl, but she had her moments.

As I approached, my aunt handed me control of the miscreant, the town’s most infamous resident, best described as a basic brown dog.

“How’d you sleep, Charlie?” Aunt Jo-Jo asked, bending down to give Noah some attention and dropping her clipboard.

I scooped it off the ground before Maya trampled it. On it was a checklist of everything that had to be done for the daylong event. People would shop the booths in the morning. Baked goods, hot drinks, and pet-related items were for sale. The ribbon-cutting, with photo opportunities for the local paper, would be the highlight of the afternoon. For the grand finale, an agility champion would run the new course. The crowd expected him to dazzle them with his speed and skills.

The opening of the agility course was a dream come true for my aunt. She’d been planning it for months and wanted everything to be perfect.

“How’d I sleep? I repeated, falling into step beside her. “Like I’d eaten a poisoned apple.” I always slept well on the porch of my aunt’s home with the fresh ocean air wafting in through a cracked window. But I was itching to find a place of my own.

With a twinkle in her eye, my aunt said, “And did Prince Charming wake you this morning?”

I blushed at the thought. She meant Nick, or Officer Sabato, as many called him. He was the town’s hottest cop who had wooed me the last time I was here. Unfortunately, fate intervened, disrupting our relationship before I could completely fall for him.

First, Nick had a murder to solve. I may have stuck my nose where it didn’t belong, but that hadn’t run him off. It was the unexpected news that he was the father of a sullen sixteen-year-old that knocked him off his feet. While dispensing law and order was in his blood, parenting was new to him. He’d let me know he was in over his head. Not in love with me unfortunately, but in his new role.

He hadn’t been at my welcome party last night. Only my aunt, her sidekick Martha, and Nick’s daughter, Kyleigh, greeted us. Of course, Maya was there. My aunt had assured me Nick wanted to come, but he was on duty.

The others had met me with a welcome-home sign, a bouquet of balloons, and a seafood feast. Once everyone went home, I fell asleep instantly—Maya on one side and Noah on the other. My happy place.

This morning, I woke up to a text message sent late the night before. Welcome home, Jersey.

Nick. So, in a way, Prince Charming had woken me. But I didn’t want to give my aunt any more ammunition, as she’d been playing matchmaker for months. I changed the subject. “Looks like a great event. What can I do to help?”

“Follow me.”

Aunt Jo-Jo led me past a stall decorated like a toy shop, where a man dressed in a Santa costume practiced his jolly laugh. “Make sure you get a photo of Noah and Maya with Mr. Claus,” my aunt said. We stopped at an undecorated booth with the Wiggle Butt Manor sign stretched across a folding table. Boxes sat on the ground. “There are decorations, brochures and giveaway tennis balls for the pups,” she said. “Please decorate and organize. Once people start showing up, you can distribute the balls to anyone who wants one. Oh, and can you answer questions about the hotel? Make sure vacationers know we’d be glad to watch their dogs while they’re out whale watching or kayaking. We do more than overnight visits.”

“Sure thing,” I said.

And with that, my aunt was off to manage other things.

I tied the dogs’ leashes to the table leg and set about opening boxes, hanging signs and displaying handouts on the tabletop. My slightly swollen hands were painful, a reminder that I’d forgotten to take my rheumatoid arthritis medication that morning. I would have to get back to my normal routine, something no thirty-year-old should have to do. Bent over a box and engrossed in my task, I looked up when a shadow darkened my booth and the dogs went bananas.

Nick stood on the other side of the table. He wore jeans, a T-shirt, and a brown corduroy jacket. Unruly chestnut hair skimmed his broad shoulders, defying department regulations. The skin around his nothing-gets-past-me brown eyes crinkled when he smiled at me. “Jersey, you made it.”

My heart thudded as I stood up and smiled. “Hey, you.” I was tall—five ten—but Nick had a few inches on me. I didn’t feel like a big doofus when I was around him, as I sometimes did around shorter people.

Nick turned his attention to Noah and Maya. As he fussed over the dogs, I felt a tug toward him, like we should hug. But the table between us made things awkward. Plus, his newfound fatherhood wasn’t the only obstacle in our way. I hadn’t yet told him about my RA diagnosis, and I was afraid my unknown future might run him off. I mean, who wants to hear about stiff joints from a thirty-year-old?

As if he felt the same frustration, he sighed, then shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels. “How was your drive?”

“Endless,” I said. “But now I can add truck driver to my resume.”

He laughed. “That would take you away too often. Hoping you’ll stay put for a while.”

My cheeks burned. “That’s the plan.”

He scanned the thickening crowd. “Have you seen Kyleigh?”

“Not this morning. How’s that going, by the way?”

He blew out a long breath. “Don’t think she likes me much. But we’re making the best of things.”

“Don’t take it personally. She doesn’t seem fond of most people. It took her a while to warm up to me.”

He pursed his lips. “And now you’re one of her favorite people. Hope she accepts me soon. Right now, everything I say is wrong.” He checked his watch. “Gotta man the booth on microchips. Catch up later?”

“I’d like that.”

He bid goodbye to the dogs and then walked off toward a booth at the other end of the lot. I looked at Maya and Noah, jealous of the hands-on attention they’d received.

Once my booth was in order, Kyleigh appeared, handing me a cup of chai tea. Though petite, she was no pushover. She handed out glares like goodie bags at a birthday party. Everybody got one. As usual, black clothing covered her from head to toe, and a curtain of black hair blended into the trench coat that dwarfed her.

“Bless you,” I said, accepting the drink.

Settled on the folding chair next to me, she propped her Doc Martens on the table and stroked Maya’s head.

“Did you catch up with Nick…. I mean, your dad? He was looking for you,” I said.

She wrinkled her nose. “Yeah. It’s all good.”

I took a leap of faith. “Might want to take it easy on him. He’s new to the game.”

She played with a loose thread on her coat. “I know.”

People started spilling into the space, and the festival was now officially underway.

There were almost as many canines as people in attendance. Maya watched the crowd with interest, while Noah turned his back on the festivities and slept. A wiry, small man wearing neatly pressed trousers, a vest and a bow tie hurried our way. A striking liver and white English Springer Spaniel walked in perfect step by his side.

He stopped at our booth, and his dog sat without a command to do so. “Can you tell me,” the man said, pushing glasses up his ski slope shaped nose, “where I can find Mrs. McMullen? She’s expecting me.”

I looked past him and scanned the crowd. “My aunt’s around here somewhere.”

He checked his watch.

Maya, who had been on her best behavior, decided she wanted to make a new acquaintance. Placing her paws on the table, she barked at the springer.

The dog looked to his owner as if he needed permission to respond.

“Control your mutt,” the man said in a haughty tone.

I resisted the urge to ask him if he had a leash for his ego as he paraded it around so confidently. Sometimes the Jersey in me appeared like a second personality. “Down, Maya,” I said, gently tugging on her lead. We did have work to do.

With a sigh, Maya complied, but the man seemed unimpressed. He puffed his chest out and grasped the lapels of his vest with both hands. “Please tell Mrs. McMullen that Miles Collins has arrived with Bentley. Bentley is a champion,” he added, giving Maya the stink-eye.

“Oh,” I said, wondering if I should bow or just laugh it off.

Clearly irritated, Mr. Collins turned and stalked off, Bentley obediently at his side.

“What was that about?” Kyleigh said, laughing.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m sure it’s nothing us peasants can understand.”

Kyleigh played with the hole in her jeans, giving me a sideways glance. Her Morticia Addams-like hair looked too heavy to carry around, almost brushing the ground. “Have you thought any more about the house?” she asked.

She’d sprung the idea on me at the party last night. Kyleigh had inherited the house of Maya’s deceased owner, Lucy Masanova. It needed a tenant until Kyleigh was old enough to either live in it or sell it. Although I was comfortable sleeping on the daybed at my aunt’s, her screened-in porch wasn’t exactly winter-friendly. Plus, I needed my own space if I intended to make Orca Cove my home.

I’d looked for rentals online before I’d made the move. The place would have to take dogs. Not only did I have Noah, but my aunt had hinted that Maya was too much for her to handle after her accident. People weren’t exactly lining up to take the devilish dog, so she was as good as mine. With her reputation, finding a rental that would take her wouldn’t be easy.

But Lucy’s house had a history that made me a tad uncomfortable. If there were another option, I might have declined Kyleigh’s offer. But there didn’t seem to be one, and I wanted to help Kyleigh out.

“I don’t know,” I said, giving her the side-eye. “Are you a mean landlord?”

She laughed. “As long as you pay your rent on time, we should be fine. And you can do what you want with decorating. Make it something I might want to live in someday.”

I held out my hand, and we shook. “You have a deal.”

***

Excerpt from Dashing Through the Show by Cindy Goyette. Copyright 2026 by Cindy Goyette. Reproduced with permission from Cindy Goyette. All rights reserved.